by Tot Taylor
‘Lot of space back there.’
No response. The man wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with a dirty handkerchief. He turns to his companion.
‘A lot of space…’
‘do they face direct into the sun?’
‘Straight on… full sunlight. ’Bout eight hours a day I reckon. Lovely view round the back…’
‘let’s get it.’
Pear’s Auction Rooms, Penzance, Cornwall. Tuesday, 8 April 1982. Morning session.
At a property auction in Penzance the hammer falls on Lot 66. For the sum of £68,500 Mr John Daly has purchased a five-bedroom dwelling, the almost derelict Trewin Farm, at Carn Point, with a cottage, adjacent greenhouses and two further outbuildings in twelve acres of farmland along the coastal path at Porthcreek.
Trewin Farm, Carn Point, Porthcreek, nr Zennor Head, Cornwall. The Vigil of Candlemas, Sunday, 2 February, 1996.
Private Road
Beware of Guard Dog
No Public Access
No Cars. No Bicycles. No Walkers. No Ramblers.
This is NOT the Coastal Path
The dog wouldn’t be a problem. Alexandre was a docile old Lurcher who had been with John Nightly coming up for eight years now. RCN had picked him up as a stray wandering along the sands at Zennor Head the week of Christmas 1988. A few months later, after no one claimed the pup he’d been welcomed permanently and lovingly into Trewin Farm by both Johns.
In terms of security there were no problems at all. Had anyone attempted to venture down the slippery towpath along this beautiful but bleak part of the headland, they would have found it extremely difficult to get anywhere near the house. For one thing, it was impossible to actually see the place until you were almost on top of it, and a copse of Monterey cypress and Claxus pines and their fallen spiky branches prevented any access being made either by foot or car.
Beyond that, there were layers of barbed wire and rusty ground spikes every few yards, with the meadow leading away from the coast path set with thick-branched gorse, the bramble so dense that it was more or less impossible to see the narrow, shingle pathway that once wound down to the side gate by the cold frames, the actual entrance, if you could call it that, to the Nightly property.
RCN had gone to great lengths to make it look as though there was nothing at all down there if anyone ever felt the need to venture on. But hardly anyone did; and when the burned out speed freak discovered the location, back in ’82, as far as he and his handler were concerned they had happened upon the ultimate hideaway. The safe haven selected from Pear’s Property catalogue after the very briefest of recces.
No visitors. No visitors at all. Unless in absolute emergency. No visitors under any ‘normal’ circumstances. It really was one of the most abandoned, out-of-the-way places in all England. Cornwall itself was not exactly the end of the world. Lots of celebrities resided here, in secret if they had any sense, and with its microclimate and full-on sunny days more or less all year round it was a natural resting place for someone whose only day-to-day interest was the cultivation and propagation of exotic plants, apart from John’s only other interest which was occasional night-time stargazing activities; the pursuit of which was made easier by the lack of street lighting and the very low light pollution which rewarded the viewer with a blitz of galactic starlight unavailable in any other part of the country.
But today was a special day. Today Frieda was coming; mother and son not having set eyes on one another for fourteen years. Today was to be a very special day indeed. Both John Nightly and his nurse were looking forward to it immensely, albeit with some trepidation.
RCN had been instructed to gather up all of the potted mesembryanthemums and doroanthus to decorate both sides of the sunlounge in the main house with these African star daisies, turning the place into an overdressed panto set. The tallest and lushest aeoniums and phormiums had been placed all the way down the wide hallway so as to line the entrance for Frieda as if she were the Queen of Norway herself, in order that she for once might be able to compliment her son on something: his enormous achievement in being able to cultivate these most spectacular of tropical exotics so far from their natural climes.
RCN had been preparing the visit for weeks, ever since the news of the death of John Snr, from lung cancer – no doubt due to the forty or so Woodbines he had smoked every day since becoming engaged to his future wife. The male nurse had been up to the Tregan Nurseries, Penzance, to purchase much-needed equipment like the new Baronet weed-puller and a pair of Darlac DP400 lightweight shears, so that the violet-blue Rhododendron cantabile and the green-carpeter juniper which edged the new split-level lawn looked freshly pruned and nice and neat and tidy for Frieda. He had also been out on the recently purchased Easimow motor-mower after the early-morning dew, so that the boss would have no reason to fret about the state of the garden when the Queen arrived.
Trewin Farm wasn’t a farm at all but an ex-vicarage. A large Victorian manor house of Cornish drystone facing onto the sea between Carn Point and Zawn Point, the folk-loric ‘Savenheer’ of mermaids, magiciens and Methodism. Comprising five bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, walk-in pantry, sunroom and four small bathrooms haphazardly arranged around a central hallway. There was also a separate utility room, outhouse, laundry room, office and even a small library. Outside stood a nondescript cottage, three adjoining long rectangular sunlounges, and a larger sun house that had once been the next-door garage. The additions which had so troubled the planners and surveyors at Penwith were the sixteen very large and very warm hothouses and the eight cold frames that played host to (at last count) more than 4,000 varieties of zygocacti, sedums and astrophytums along with countless succulents, alpines and other exotic species imported at great cost and with great persistence from the Northern Cape Province of South Africa, Brazil, Australia, New Zealand, the Cayman Islands, Japan, the People’s Republic of China, Argentina, Peru, Chile and other far-off weird and wonderful lands.
The vicarage, as it was before, was one of the dwellings listed in the inventory on the death of the parson John Cardew, vicar of the little church of St Eina, the ‘church on the beach’, in the rural parish of Porthcreek 1789–1866. Cardew was most likely a relative of Cornelius Cardew, one-time headmaster of Truro School and dedicatee of the Cardew Memorial Roof Boss in Truro Cathedral (a special service took place in St Mary’s Aisle in 1988). Like many preachers and ecclesiastical men in Cornwall at the time, John Cardew was probably using his various properties for smuggling. Although as a parson he would already have been receiving the usual tithes of fish, silk, wool and altarage, the alms given to the Church and its wardens, he would likely have been involved in the practice of using the church to store kegs of brandy, tea, post-office ‘packets’ and other fineries, which would then be transferred to various middlemen before entering the warehouses of wholesale merchants, where they would be sold to sailors, publicans and Cornish gentry. On his death the Reverend John Cardew left a sum of £30,000 – the equivalent of £2,000,000 today.
Another reason John RCN had recommended Trewin* Farm on John Nightly’s release from SUMHA was that it had a secret passage via the old graveyard into the smugglers’ caves directly onto the beach, some hundred feet below. More or less a private beach, as it turned out, there being no way into this particular cove from Zennor Head except perhaps by helicopter. RCN liked to entertain the idea that one day his charge might enjoy the exclusivity of his own sandy place, small though it was, and that he himself might like to take a swim every now and then or even do a spot of sunbathing in the long months of summer. But John Nightly had shown no interest whatsoever in private beaches or smugglers’ caves. One morning in the very middle of midsummer, the boss had placed his trembling sandled foot onto the first couple of slimy steps that led down to the shore; but it looked most uninviting and, feeling the cold, wet stone on his bare skin, he quickly turned back again, asking RCN to close the door. This had been John Nightly’s only encounter so far with a beach in
Cornwall.
But the faithful nurse lived in hope, believing that one day in the not-too-distant future he and his friend might be able to walk along the coast path together. The boss had shown interest in seeing the various hybrid varieties of sea heather that lined the cliff edge and RCN knew that he would want to return once they had taken that first major step. It was a slow process, still a couple of years off, maybe, and John Nightly had already come a long way, but in his mind’s eye RCN could see them both walking along the cliff path, the incredible blue vista of the bay laid out before them with only the bright sunshine, a light rain creating a soft rainbow, the distant wind and the sweet songs of the finches and robins to trouble them.
* Literal translation of Trewin: ‘white farm’ (parish of Porthcreeque 1303), tre + gwenn (feminine form of gwynn), with mutation of gw to w, or in Welsh gwenn ‘smile, prayer, wish’. Also possible: ‘windy farm’ (Trewynt). Exact form uncertain. (Settlements in Cornwall and their Origins, Cornish Record Office, book #9, Penwith District Council 1953)
It was unusual to find a beat group in Cambridge in May 1963. Jana could only think of two: the Golden Blades at Trinity and the Bridegrooms at King’s. Then one Saturday, sitting with John in the corner of the Whim, she noticed what looked like a photograph of Pinky and Perky pinned to the café notice board. It wasn’t the irritating TV piglets but the Tiddlywinks, a local group from Histon in need of a fab rhythm guitarist.
‘Why don’t you go and ring them up?’ The girl put down her books and propped herself up on the counter. ‘Find out what they’re like?’
‘I know what they’re like. Tell that by the picture, and… well, I think I have to get my own musicians together…’
‘But your “own musicians” won’t ever actually get together, will they, John? Because no one will ever be good enough for you.’ She sighed. ‘You know they won’t. Certainly not in Cambridge anyway. It’ll take an age.’ Jana was always lecturing the boy; pushing… pushing. ‘And there’s a readymade group right there… Ready and waiting.’ She indicated towards the chubby foursome. ‘Give them a ring, for God’s sake. They look daft enough to… to do your bidding.’
John took a cursory look at the menu, pretending he was about to choose something he couldn’t possibly afford.
‘John…’ The girl froze and stared impatiently at her boyfriend. ‘Go and ring them up!’
Jana got up from her seat, pressed two newly minted coppers into the boy’s palm, put her hands on his shoulders and turned him around, laughing as she manoeuvred John’s unwilling limbs, pointing him in the direction of the phone booth just inside the hallway of the busy tea bar.
‘… hallo… uh… my name’s John…’ The caller paused for a moment as if stopped in his tracks, ‘ah… well… I’ve just seen your… your notice about a guitarist…’ A further pause, ‘ah… oh… uh. Well… I might do, I suppose. What? Uh… quite good I should think. Right then. I’ll be there. Oh… are you? Prince Philip? Is that right? I do remember it, actually…’ John glanced back and made a face at his girlfriend. ‘I see… well… yeh, I’ll be there… ask for Vernon? I will do… yep. Okay… well…’
The boy rejoined his promoter at the bench by the arched window.
‘Prince Philip?’ Jana sat with her chin resting on a large dictionary.
‘… um… uh… They’re called the Tiddlywinks ’cos…’ John looked bored already. ‘Remember when the Tiddlywinks Club was challenged to a match by Prince Philip?’
‘No…’
He shovelled another sugar into his stale powdered coffee. ‘Couple of years ago… He sent the Goons. To play for him… represent him instead. I remember it actually…’
‘I don’t.’
John sipped the opaque liquid. ‘Ugh!’ He frowned and pursed his lips, ‘God!’
‘And…’
‘And that’s why they’re called that…’
Jana lifted a napkin from its holder and began to pack away her papers. ‘Don’t understand… But it’s a dreadful, dreadful name…’
Vernon Johnson and John Hilton, guitarist and drummer respectively with the Tiddlywinks beat group, were finding life busier than usual. Currently in the mid-term of a Natural Sciences Tripos* at Christ’s, they found themselves consumed with college work while also sitting on the committee organising that year’s social calendar. Having booked themselves into their own venue the Tiddlywinks were due to play Christ’s May Ball in two weeks time. Christ’s had a reputation as giver of the very best balls of the season. Always black tie, and usually with top-notch entertainment (the Who played there as late as 1967). After the main event, with food and drink circulating uneasily around young undergraduates systems and the promise of other varieties of recreation ahead, at around 4 or 5am, a small armada would head up the river to Grantchester for breakfast – maybe in Rupert Brooke’s beloved orchard and the neighbouring meadows, where revellers would celebrate either by falling over and vomiting or by simply passing out just as the obligatory ‘survivors’ photograph was being taken.
May balls were crucial to the Cambridge music scene, supplying much-needed employment to classical bods, jazzers and rock’n’rollers alike. Indeed, without the seasonal university events there was little going on anywhere else in the way of musical fixtures. On a typical damp Friday evening undergraduates congregated in cellars across the town, where various temporary clubs came and went. The Mouse, the Pink Scarf, the Zodiac, Brook’s, Scales, the Carn, Ludo’s, the Mill, Constable’s, the Tin Mine, the Riverboat, Dolly’s, the Alley Club in Falcon Yard and the Jazz Club at the Lion Hotel. There were one-nighters at the legendary Dorothy Ballroom and the Union Society, along with other regular well-known activities like the Corpus Chess Club, foreign-film screenings at the Kinema in Mill Road, the aforementioned Tiddlywinks Society and various private reading and study groups.
Most other areas of social activity were of course to do with sport, particularly rowing and rugby. Life outside the colleges was unremittingly dull. For musicians, particularly jazz bands, ‘trad’ or ‘modernist’, and beat groups, there were very few venues in which to actually perform, although they were based in a supposedly youth-populated market town, which is why the nearby USAF bases at Lakenheath and Mildenhall, leaning more towards live entertainment, were a godsend to local groups and singers. With gigs almost every night of the week and fees of £40 or £50 for a couple of hours’ work, they provided the means to learn the craft by hacking through the hits of the day, much like the Merseybeat groups had done at the Indra and the Star clubs in Hamburg.
But entertaining American forces wasn’t easy, as GIs were much more in tune with current sounds than Cambridge undergrads were. On US Air Force territory, groups would be expected to perform all of that week’s Top 10, along with a selection of rock’n’roll favourites, replicating them as close to the originals as possible. But the audience was appreciative and tips would be given for particular requests, especially end-of-the-night smooches and country ballads – the catechism song ‘Deck of Cards’* concluded each Tiddlywinks performance – bringing back memories of home for stationed servicemen. Although it could be something of a slog, performers were at least on a stage, singing and playing live; playing music. US bases were useful for another reason: they were a reliable source of drugs.
Drugs featured regularly in the pages of Varsity, the university magazine. French blues, purple hearts, Dexies and Prellies, along with a vast array of uppers and downers, were readily available around the colleges. In February 1966, Varsity estimated that ten percent of students were regularly being ‘enhanced’ in some way or another. In November that same year the publication rocked the town when it claimed that there were forty undergraduate heroin users and also regular LSD trippers in at least four colleges. Hard drugs came in from friends in London while others were homegrown. Varsity advised that local landladies look more carefully at what they were watering. In March ’68, the magazine reported that cannabis resin was available at £10 a
n ounce – up from £4 in ’65 – but that there was currently no grass (cannabis grain) available anywhere in the city. LSD however was doing a roaring trade, selling at thirty shillings a tab – double the London price. Mind expansion came directly from Holland, hallucinogenics being the new thing. But Pakistani green and black and Nepalese hash were also available. An article in Granta magazine in February ’67 stated that LSD was being manufactured in the university chemical labs; the piece led to Granta editor Sean Hardie being reprimanded by the senior Proctor for failing to consult him before publication.
Later on, this would all be of great interest to John Nightly; but the following Saturday, as he walked into the Tiddlywinks’ tiny rehearsal room, otherwise known as the Hilton family’s lock-up, the only thing that concerned him was the group’s physical appearance. The Bri-Nylon foursome, Vernon, Colin, Clem and John, on guitars, bass and drums respectively, were four of the most gormless-looking individuals he’d ever set eyes on.
